


Evolve Into The Hero You Were Meant To Be (Over and over and over he'd die and be born again)

by Thementalistlover2013



Category: Second Chance (TV 2016)
Genre: Acceptance, Angst, BUT IT IS NOT SUICIDE, Becoming A Hero, Drunken Confessions, Duval is a good son, F/M, Family Drama, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Grumpy Old Men, Mary is guilty, Mentions of Suicide, Murder-Suicide, No Incest, No Smut, Old Age, Poor Jimmy, Survivor Guilt, Tears, Widowed, it all works out, revival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 03:27:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6267679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thementalistlover2013/pseuds/Thementalistlover2013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jimmy was shaking, violent drunk tears streaming down his face; he must've been really fucked up to just spontaneously sob like that, Duval made note to never ever drink anything but beer at the Goodwin home as he wrapped a hesitant arm around his father's shoulders. The shorter man leaned into his son and Duval, despite the terror that their relationship was, felt something bloom in his chest; protectiveness, something like guilt and a need to fix the man who had never broken before was overwhelming. </p><p>AKA: Jimmy is a tough guy, but on the inside he's having trouble dealing. One drunken night at the Goodwin house after a solved case puts cracks in his hardened shell; it's a good thing Duval and Mary are there to make things worse and then (thankfully) better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What Am I Today?

**Author's Note:**

> First Second Chance fic! I really like this show, so you should check it out! Maybe it'll get a second season (chance, ha puns) at Fox (the pros at cancelling any good show that they put out). 
> 
> Anyways, to the fic, I decided that I really appreciated Jimmy and Duval's weird father and son relationship. Pair that with Jimmy's conflicting thoughts about his wife (I don't know her name so I didn't mention it), Mary and his revival. 
> 
> I was listening to Pandora while writing this and 'By Your Side' by Tenth Avenue North came on. It kind of reminded me of the fic, so I suggest that you listen to that on repeat if you'd like a sound track while reading! I really don't listen to Christian music, but it's a beautiful song! Oh! We can forget about Bad Moon Rising either!

~*~

Just to be clear, Duval was doing fine in the aftermath.

He was _okay_ with his father's suicide, as much as someone could be okay with their very own parent nose diving off of a bridge. Duval was coming to terms, _really_ , because it wasn't as if he'd had a choice - neither his personal feelings towards his father or his status as the primary support to both his sister and his daughter would allow that. Grieving would have to happen another time, and until then - if then even occurred - he'd have to stick through with his case.

It's what his father would've expected, not wanted, because Jimmy Pritchard never _wanted_ anything - that'd be an insecurity, a weakness. Duval, of course, wanted (because he could want things such as closure, he _was_ a human being, of course, his father happily declined the title) to make his father proud, even if it didn't seem like it. Approval was something that most children wanted, even if you happened to be the son of a man - yes, despite what Jimmy might've thought, _Sheriff_ was not an applicable species name and he was, by default, a human - like Pritchard.

When Mary (one half of the Wonder Twins) told him that his self proclaimed long lost half brother was actually his (now younger) father, Duval was instantly brought back to all of those times when Jimmy seemed invincible. Reality soon set in, and with that came the panic.

Because _real_ life meant death and grieving and the world spinning as you, with the rest of humanity, moved on - it surely did _not_ mean being re-introduced to your dead father. Duval's life was just settling down, his last remaining parent had died, he was getting older, and then of course, just as any other time, his father had (not asked of course) been _given_ the chance to step in and knock him off of his fragile axis; a second chance at life and meddling and for most importantly, interference.

His father, his new _and_ improved father, was different. He seemed to have lost a few inches in height, making up for it with muscle and a fit figure that replaced the ever constant hunch and gnarled shape carved carefully by time. A man with lighter hair and even livelier eyes, whose cigarette hardened voice had been given a dose of youth; lets not forget the super powers either, because it wouldn't be Duval's life if something cosmically improbable didn't occur - especially when his father was involved.

To any other person, he seemed like your simple thirty something year old guy. A man who was a bit electronically inept, an old soul per se. Nothing out of the ordinary if you didn't mention the references to his grandkid or the far too personal recounts of the booming fifties of course.

To Duval, it was a trip to the past. Jimmy vaguely looked like the pictures he'd seen of his father, the bright cocky smile, the jawline. Everything else, even his attitude, seemed to change, if not minutely. Duval was star struck and Pritchard, well, he couldn't even imagine how _he_ was feeling.

Fish out of water seemed a bit too ironic considering the giant tank, but it was damn near close.

Duval could see his father struggling, even if he hadn't _wanted_ to notice, to care. The elderly man's life had been nothing but daytime television, cheap alcohol and even cheaper cigarettes, loud music and the occasional visit from his remaining family. Now Jimmy had energy and purpose and lives to save; he'd already served his time as Sheriff, and now, after a murder-presumed-suicide fly from a bridge, he was expected to be back, in some sort of capacity.

And Duval, well, he hadn't been prepared for any sort of emotional wreckage pertaining to his father and the twisted form of reincarnation he'd been put under without consent. He could tell that Pritchard was frustrated with having so much time on his hands, an entire life in front of him to live. There wasn't a guidebook for child birth (god knows Duval needed that now more than ever with Gracie acting out), and there sure as hell wasn't anything remotely helpful for _this_ \- whatever this was. Maybe Duval was dead too, it would explain his father's reemergence and Gracie's rebellion.

Hell. _That's_ where he was, that's what was happening. This was some sick form of hell and Duval, no matter his beliefs, couldn't seem to find any other excuse - especially when his now younger father began to cry on his shoulder.

That was a first.

"Hey," Duval shrugged a bit in alarm, a lame attempt at escape as his father's entire body collapsed against him. Jimmy's breath reeked of alcohol and something akin to despair as he buried his face into his son's suit.

They'd solved a case and had celebrated at Mary's because the alcohol was expensive and that meant the level of drunkenness they'd be able to reach was on a preternatural plane. That, and his home was currently hosting a dozen of Gracie's friends (which was yet _another_ easier to swallow form of hell) and with his luck his daughter would try to sneak some liquor in. Even so, Duval stayed away from the stuff that smelt harsh enough to blind because he, unlike his father, didn't have a clone of his home inside of the Wonder Twin's home and had to end up at home at some point.

Home sounded less torturous as his father began to sniffle.

Mary, who was seated across from them in a pristine pant suit, frowned hard enough to leave permanent damage (then again, they'd revived his father, they'd definitely be able to whip up some Botox, or hell, maybe they could grow another face in a petri dish).

This meant it probably wasn't some delayed side effect of the coming-back-to-life tank and simply a human (yeah, it felt weird to even think about his father, the invincible Sheriff, doing something human) fault.

"James?" Mary started, perching on her equally pristine furniture as if she wanted to leap over the coffee table and comfort him; now what was _that_ about?

Jimmy was shaking, violent drunk tears streaming down his face; he must've been really fucked up to just spontaneously sob like that, Duval made note to never _ever_ drink anything but beer at the Goodwin home as he wrapped a hesitant arm around his father's shoulders. The shorter man leaned into his son and Duval, despite the terror that their relationship was, felt something bloom in his chest; protectiveness, something like guilt and a need to fix the man who had never broken before was overwhelming.

His father, even old and frail, had never broke. Duval had never even seen him cry, never less fall apart for a seemingly unknown reason.

Mary was glaring at him from across the table and Duval knew that if he didn't act soon he would lose the chance.

"...Dad? Do you...want to talk? What's um,"

Mary blinked at him, one heeled toe angled downwards, ready to rise from her chair and fix him; Duval, even if she meant good, would much rather help his own father, even if he'd never been enthusiastic about it before. He cared, he did, _really_ , and now that they had another chance, maybe, just maybe, things would be different.

Duval sighed, but not in disinterest, "Going on? You okay?"

He rubbed his father's back, feeling the tremors there with each shaky breath. Mary watched in interest as Jimmy quieted down, sniffling one last time.

"My wife-"

There was a lengthy pause, and Duval looked down to find his father's eyes closed, the man peacefully slumbering as he drooled and cried and left snot tracks on his son's suit jacket. Mary stood, gesturing towards the back of the house, where Pritchard's apartment was (and wasn't that weird).

Unfortunately, Jimmy opened his eyes with a sharp inhale just as quickly as he'd fallen into oblivion. The tears started up again, and if asked, Duval would say that he only comforted his father to save his suit jacket from bodily fluids.

"Talk, dad, with your mouth, and your words."

In any other circumstance, Duval would've been given a snarky reply, something other than a shaky slurred voice the opposite of confident.

"She was 'ways sayin' that ladies live longer. 'N I was thinkin' 'bout her today."

"Yeah, buddy." Duval met Mary's eyes sadly, shaking his head slightly. Duval's mother, a gracious southern woman who had whipped his father into shape, had died five or so years ago. It'd always been a touchy subject, and Duval had never really even spoken to his father about it like they should've. They never cried together or hugged it out. The funeral was small and quaint, just as she would've liked, and after that the subject was dropped like her coffin, six feet below the ground, never to resurface until now.

Of course, Gracie had told him that her grandpa tended to talk about her often, told her that she looked just like her grandma; Duval had felt a pang in his chest back then, and now, knowing that his father had been holding himself together for so long after being widowed, it was like a truck to the sternum.

He should've pushed harder, been a better son. His parents were married for over twenty years, being with a person for that long _had_ to leave lasting effects, even on the toughest of men. And then when her time came and Duval got the call, he heard nothing but cold shock in his father's voice.

The same tone was back again, and Duval resisted the urge to bring up his own feelings; it _really_ wasn't about him this time.

"Com'on buddy, talk about it. It'll make you feel better."

Mary, the ever stoic woman, was sitting across from them, tears in her dark eyes.

Jimmy shivered against him, wearing nothing but his boxers - it'd been hard to keep his clothes on, especially when he figured out how to work Pandora (after asking Arthur of course) and managed to turn on Creedence Clearwater Revival Radio; luckily for him, _Bad Moon Rising_ happened to be the first track. After that, Duval had attempted to keep his eyes on the ground and Otto, the poor man, had retreated to another room in the house in fear of being thrown around as Jimmy taught them how to Swing dance.

Duval had kept his eyes off then and now was no different. His father was nearly naked and sweating and tear streaked and it was all _far_ too intimate for the two of them (seriously, hugging was an event that happened every other decade). Duval kept his eyes off the scars that littered his father's chest and patted his back gently, glad that his father was holding onto him with the same amount of strength; anything more could've dislocated his shoulder, or worse.

"An' she died but I was 'posed to go first. That was our agreement, 'cause I couldn't live without her. Never could. Not then, not now."

Duval swallowed down the pain in his heart, avoiding Mary's guilty gaze.

"'M an old man, 'posed to die, ya know? Wanted to see her, so I gave up, could've fought harder on that bridge but I was _jus_ ' an old man and I'd lived long 'nough."

Duval hugged his father tighter, looking down at him, their eyes meeting. No matter the lack of wrinkles and worn skin on his father's face, his eyes remained the same. Old and wise, like they'd seen too much, been through too much.

"I _am_ an old man, 'posed to be dead. And I was, I died. And then I wasn't, I was alive."

"I understand, dad. I mean, as well as I can."

Jimmy looked up at his son, sucking in some air tiredly as he scoffed, shaking his head against Duval's chest; by now he was laying completely on his son's lap, body curled on the couch, head rested on Duval's thighs. Jimmy's son ran his hands through his father's hair, reveling in the feeling of thick blonde locks compared to the grayer, thinner ones he'd had a week or two before; he felt different, healthy even.

But not happy, not satisfied. Jimmy exhaled heavily, drunken breath potent as it hit Duval's nostrils. Silence filled the space, Mary's guilt swirling with Jimmy's grief and Duval's goading.

"Now 'm _younger_ than my son."

Duval couldn't reply to that, couldn't deny it either; his father's estimated age was somewhere between thirty and thirty-five, and Duval was nearly fifty.

Duval could only rub Jimmy's head as his mother used to do, comforting the best he could as Mary watched on in silence.

Eventually his father quieted down, drunken sobs levelling out to mild shakes until those too turned into something else entirely; Jimmy's quiet snores didn't quite match his body, but so long as he was sleeping, Duval wouldn't comment.

For the next few hours both the remainder of the room found their feet interesting, too shell shocked to comment on the obvious:

Jimmy Pritchard was a boy, a soldier, a man, a sheriff, an old man, an unpredictable variable. He was a pain when he was _content_.

What would he evolve into now?

~*~

 


	2. I'm Great At Being Anything But Me (Respectable)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jimmy advances, improves even.

~*~

Jimmy, as with any other time he had been away from the tank for too long, awoke with an extreme sense of disorientation and nausea. Of course, that could've been the _extreme_ amount of alcohol he'd consumed the night before.

The night before. That was _something_ he couldn't quite identify. Couldn't pull apart and scan it through his specific moral code to determine if his actions warranted anything absolutely immediate.

He'd never woken up in such a circumstance. Curled on his son's lap like a baby, shivering in the cold air, pink cheeked and sticky from tears of unknown origins.

This warranted something _immediate_ , something like running away, staging a kidnapping, those guys who threw him off of the bridge the first time could've been helpful; Jimmy licked his dry lips, yeah, that tasted _nice_ , like bile. This whole situation tasted like bile, sour and unnatural on the human tongue. He'd do anything to get him out of the room unnoticed by the two people who cared the most, who would criticize his actions the most and maybe even attempt to coddle him.

The night before and the developments that came with it hit him full force and he ended up silently humiliated, still as ever as he glanced around the room, mindful not to move; waking Duval up now and having to face him after a night like _that_ would've been horrifying.

Don't even mention the fact that Mary was a witness to his elderly rambles about being widowed - it probably made her feel horrible, maybe she even pitied him now; he'd get nothing out of her now, at least, not what he wanted deep down.

_Poor deranged Jimmy Pritchard, hiding his old, broken heart behind a front of tough-guy-hero._

He loved his wife, he really did, but _he_ was not here, this was _not_ him. The man who loved his wife was a _couple_ of years younger than her with grayer hair and bald spots; now he looked like her son. The man who loved her wouldn't have even dreamed of coming back (and coming back? she was such a religious woman that she'd probably consider it a miracle, or better yet, witch craft) to life without her by his side; and here he was, even if it was without his consent, he could've ended it as easily as it had started - unfortunately, neither of him would commit suicide - his own ma would've bitch slapped him up from hell.

The thought of his wife made him teary, as it usually did (as it probably _should_ ), but it wasn't the longing thoughts of a widowed old man that used young hookers to stifle the pain; no, this was the fear of betrayal, of _actually_ falling in love rather than falling into another strange dame's lady bits.

Duval snored, a quick and startled inhale; he really needed to get that sleep apnea checked out, because Jimmy had caught him slumbering peacefully before, _completely_ still. A whack to the chest would usually start his breathing back up again, but it always woke up Duval in the process.

This was how it started usually, odd breathing habits before the breathing part completely ceased to exist. Jimmy started up at his son's chin in fear.

"Com' _on_ son, don't make me-"

Breath in, breath out.

Silence.

There was no gasping or coughing like there should've been, and Jimmy felt his heart race like never before; anxiety and trepidation nipped at his insides.

Jimmy was laying on his son's lap, his non-breathing son's lap, and luckily (for Duval at least), he wouldn't risk his son's health for something as stupid as preventing a humiliating environment; Jimmy was strong, strong enough to work through this with an adult-like thought process. Jimmy didn't know how much time he had left before he had to be back in the tank. His vision was swimming, lights harsh as they bled into each other. Sounds became more prevalent, which only amplified the silence coming from Duval's chest; Jimmy needed to act now before he passed out completely.

Pritchard raised a shaky fist, twisting his body as he rammed his hand into his son's chest.

"Duval, ge' up."

Just as when he was born, Duval came up gasping, loud and harsh pants wracking his frame. Jimmy breathed a sigh of relief, one hand weakly patting his kneecap, comfort had been due for a while now; words were lost on him, he'd never been one to speak out, especially when he was expected to, when he should've.

"Dad?" Duval croaked out, looking down in confusion before reality kicked in. Jimmy, who had been panicking quietly ever since he'd awoken, watched on with false disinterest, ignoring the fact that he was still laying on his son; nothing but a thing for those _lovey dovey_ Pritchard boys, right?

If you ignore it, it isn't real, isn't happening, isn't a big deal. Nothing to gawk at.

Arthur's blue form projected from the nearby window, face reprimanding as stats and vitals surrounded him.

"Mr. Pritchard, it's time for you-"

"Tank," Jimmy waved his hand, Mary awakening from across the table, outfit wrinkled and her makeup smeared as she uncurled from her position on the chair.

Jimmy had never seen her look as beautiful as she did when she was just _Mary_ , rather than the hardened _Ms. Goodwin_ that she usually was, worrying about him and Otto and her cancer and the business. She probably thought about world hunger and climate change, too.

Jimmy's heart rate sped up a bit, and Arthur, the ever faithful pest, notified the entire room.

Duval smirked down at him, looking far too cocky for someone who had (not really) nearly died. Jimmy rolled his eyes, settling down before Arthur decided to point out his arousal. Duval put a hand on his shoulder, joking done with as he looked over his dad with worry.

"You want to sit up, dad? Looking a bit-"

"Sickly." Mary cut in, standing over the two of them like a mother hen. She placed her hand over Jimmy's forehead, even if his stats were displayed on the window, and hummed quietly to herself.

"Not sick-"

Arthur cut in, "I was going to notify you, Mary. It seems as if Mr. Pritchard has developed an anomaly-"

"Not sick," Jimmy pushed off of his son's lap, Duval reaching out towards him. Pritchard's head swam and he nearly toppled off the couch, Duval grabbed him carefully around his midsection. Jimmy growled, but Duval, the do-gooder FBI agent, remained right where he was. Mary tapped her chin, walking to the other side of him to meet his eyes; to study him. Jimmy rolled his eyes.

"Where's the anomaly Arthur?"

"Mr. Pritchard's immune system is malfunctioning. It looks as though another glitch has occurred. I suggest emerging him into the bio-"

"The fish tank, okay, we _got_ it Arthur, now beep-boop yourself out please-"

"Is agitation a symptom of a sickness or his personality?" Mary asked Arthur, smiling down at the father and son, even if the situation didn't call for one. Arthur paused before speaking, "I believe that you already know the answer to your question, Mary. Mr. Pritchard did not develop this trait overnight."

Duval nodded in agreement, laughing a bit, "Yeah, that's a craft he's been honing for seventy years-"

"Seventy years and counting." Mary muttered out jokingly, smile ceasing when she noticed Jimmy's expression.

"Mary, I believe that Mr. Pritchard's BP has elevated past the average level-"

"Right," Mary whispered out, rubbing the bridge of her nose as last night came back to her; they really needed to stop letting Jimmy pressure them into alcoholic drinks like a group of teenagers. She met Jimmy's eyes, the bright blue orbs unnaturally absent. "James?"

Jimmy looked at her, really looked at her, and Mary was shocked at how serious his expression was, as if he was looking right through her. She softened her voice, Duval looking over the two of them with interest, as if he was solving a puzzle; never less, his grip on his father's body never ceased.

Jimmy was weak, leaning completely against his son's chest, attempting to ignore the two of them as he tried to lower his heart rate and blood pressure and anything else that would give off the emotionally distressed vibe.

"James, lets get you into the tank and then we can talk-"

Jimmy closed his eyes, and neither of them could've expected his next words.

"I'd really rather _not_ -"

"But Mr. Pritchard-"

"Arthur, get the fuck out of the window before I _bash_ my goddamn _head_ through it."

Arthur quieted down at Jimmy's growled out words but didn't dare leave. The rapid beeping of Jimmy's pulse seemed to shake the entire room and he clutched his ears and shut his eyes.

"James, you need to get into the tank before-"

"Before _what_ , Mary? Before your cure dies in my veins?" Jimmy shoved off of his son with a final burst of adrenaline, stumbling past Mary and towards the kitchen. "Maybe I need the tank, but I sure as hell don't _want_ it."

Jimmy opened the fridge, leaning against it, shaking his head as if to clear it. He reached for a beer, the glass shattering in his palm. He grimaced, reaching for another with carefully shaking fingers. He twisted the entire neck of the bottle off, droplets running down his wrist, mixed with blood from the shards stuck in his palm.

Duval was standing now, Mary and him advancing towards Jimmy as if he was a wounded animal (which wasn't far from the truth). Jimmy raised his middle finger, tipping the bottle of beer back, sucking it down like it was a lifeline despite the sharp rim.

"Your feelings are _completely_ justified, James-" Mary's voice was calm and collected, just as it had been on the first day he'd come back, and if that didn't sting, Jimmy didn't know what did.

He wasn't some delirious old man, _this_ was fucked up, his entire situation was fucked up; he _was_ completely justified, because he never asked for this, never even dreamed of this.

He was supposed to die first and stay dead; he couldn't even get the ending of his train wreck of a life right. All he had to do was _nothing_ , and not even that worked out.

"Dad, you-" Duval paused, searching for the right words. "I've never seen you happier, at least not since mom died-"

Jimmy nearly fell over, hand whipping out to point an accusatory finger at the two of them. His voice was hard, and his age showed through the tone, he sounded like a soldier, a sheriff, a father. He sounded strong and forceful and angry, but he was weak and sick and most importantly, _furious_. " _Don't_ you _dare_ bring her up, not now!"

Mary's face warped into his wife's before he could take another breath. In front of him stood his family, the two of them scared, care showing through their eyes. Jimmy fell against the fridge, sliding down the door, his bum hitting the ground as he absently wondered where his daughter and granddaughter were.

Then again, his son and his wife were always the ones to reel him back in.

The ground was safe, the ground was real, the ground could reel him back in, right? The ground was always there, it hadn't left, hadn't been brought back, but it sure as hell felt as though it was leaving him (like everything and everyone else) as the world spun around him.

His wife was there, small and sweet, hair curled around her face, bright eyes as alive as the day they had met. She touched his face and he leaned into it, sighing heavily, a tear escaping his eye, settling itself down onto her smooth palm. She didn't seem to mind.

"Honey, I'm _so_ sorry. Didn't mean for this to happen-"

"Shh, it's okay. I know, James. I know."

Jimmy closed his eyes, his wife's nails petting his face, soothing him to sleep.

Duval blinked past the puddles in his eyes, bending down and, with the help of Mary, situating his father into his arms bridal style.

Dropping him into the tank was like dropping him into the ground, over and over and over again.

Going into the tank was like being brought back, over and over and over again.

Watching the act was like attending an alive man's funeral, over and over and over again.

Over and over and over he'd die and be born again.

Evolving into something less human with each dip.

The tank stripped him down, and soon enough, he'd be nothing but the experiment.

Then again, Jimmy was good at being anything but himself. Now it was another title, another thing to evolve into. And that was good, because he was exceptional at evolving as long as he never turned into something close to himself, something above himself (because he knew how to be bad, it was in his blood, Pritchard boys had always been hell - of course, Pritchard had broken that spell - and somebody needed to carry it, or at least teach Gracie in the art of rebellion).

A boy, a soldier, a man, a husband, a (corrupt) sheriff, a father, an _old_ man, an unpredictable variable, an experiment.

Jimmy would never be able to say he hadn't lived fulfilling lives, and maybe after everything had settled, he would say that; he'd _want_ to say just that.

He'd be able to say that because he was alive and well after a lifetime of what some might consider hell. Jimmy wasn't simply an experiment, he was a survivor, a savior.

Jimmy Pritchard had gone through every other role, maybe it was time for a change; maybe he was advancing, rather than just evolving.

Jimmy Pritchard? _Hero?_

Heroes didn't die. Heroes didn't drink. Heroes were good. Maybe the term _Hero_ could evolve with him.

Was that _him?_ The new him? The facts were inconclusive; he didn't really know himself, not now, not the new him. He needed time and-

Pritchard felt himself awaken, another rebirth from the tank. He stretched out a few limbs, feeling his senses return. Jimmy opened his eyes, drinking in the sudden urge of power and youth as it rushed through his veins. Duval and Mary stood above him on either side, looking as though they expected a full fledged breakdown; Duval probably had his FBI team on standby and Mary had probably already bought out and reserved him a spot in some white walled mental institution.

It was now when he would have to make his decision. Advancement? _Improvement?_ Jumping from a dead, corrupt sheriff to a young hero seemed nearly impossible.

He was impossible, Jimmy reminded himself. But he was _here_ and he was still a Pritchard.

Jimmy grinned, shaking his head towards his son's impeccable suit and tie. He laughed roughly at the irony, hands resting on his chest; he was Jimmy Pritchard in the flesh, despite the hero complex running through his genes (which was proudly not a side effect of the Goodwin twins' Frankenstein trial), he was reminded at what got him murdered in the first place - what got him where he was.

Rebellion, constant meddling, nosiness; being an all around asshole.

The two perfectionists above him cocked brows in a near unison manner (it was probably socially unacceptable to stare at two conscious beings for this long without speaking, but Jimmy had no problem with it, simply because it _caused_ a problem). He worked his jaw a bit, licking his lips before gesticulating towards his son with the ramrod posture. Jimmy slumped upwards, grunting a bit as he rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.

"I'll carry on the tradition, Duvall, don't worry. I'll teach your kid too."

"Okay, but. Wait, what?" Duval paused, looking relieved and worried all at the same time, "You're teaching Gracie what?" He turned to Mary, who was equally perplexed. "Did I...miss _something?_ Pretty sure _you_ were the one who took a mini sabbatical in your fish tank."

Mary crossed her arms and shook her head, looking thoughtful.

Jimmy smirked, standing from his bed and making a beeline for the bourbon he'd hid underneath the sink, "Somebody's got to make sure the two of you don't knot your panties together." He scoffed, swishing the liquid around, eyes bright. "Tight asses."

"Excuse me?" Mary asked, humor in her voice. Jimmy waved her off.

"Besides, I highly doubt you'd be able to handle each other without me around."

Matching scoffs echoed to the rear of him.

He took out a bottle of amber liquid, taking a swig from it; he could feel the disappointment behind him, but with it was relief and maybe even a hint of fondness from the both of them. Jimmy cocked a brow towards Mary and Duval, bottle held in his palm as he settled into his recliner.

" _What?_ I do what I want." He propped his feet outwards, the leather squeaking beneath him. He flipped on _Jeopardy_ , cranking the volume up, despite the fact that his hearing was fine; it was how he'd always watched it, there was no reason to change it now.

Duval shook his head in bemusement, slapping his father's shoulder gently. "Buddy, _just_. Drink. Watch your show. Take a break."

Mary chimed in, "The bourbon, nothing else, old men can't handle the newer stuff."

He shooed them away, "Ah, whatever. Respect your elders or some shit."

Respect? _Yeah_. Jimmy grinned as the door shut.

He was respectable now; takes one to know one, right? It was time to get things off of his chest, he could judge now, rather than all of the critique being put on him.

"Fuck you Trebek." Jimmy took another swig, reveling in the taste. "Oh, how I miss the sixties, Fleming was a _respectable_ host, even with that horrid spray tan. God bless his soul."

~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to show some love! Another chapter to come! 
> 
> We need more Second Chance fics out here, so go write! Comment if you write anything and I'll be sure to go read it!


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